


Stranger in a new bar

by orphan_account



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Meanwhile in the Rift
Genre: Because I apparently don't ship enough rarepairs/crackships????, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byron and Kafka meet in a bar and flirt. My pre-story for Meanwhile in the Rift bc I just have to ship rarepairs. I don't know why I'm like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger in a new bar

The bar was quiet for a Thursday night, but it still had too many people for Franz’s taste. Most of the occupants were coming directly from the office in search of a cheap happy hour, however Franz was there for the usual reason. To find someone to hook up with. 

 

It was a lonely existence but it was rather hard for him to commit to a relationship given that he wasn’t up to date on the typical flirting codes of the 21st century. He’d already scared away a nice young woman with his strange remarks, and it was only 6:00. 

 

He stared dismally into his drink, hoping for someone to sit down next to him. At least then he wouldn’t be so alone. Franz began to scratch out a tepid outline for some new story on a cocktail napkin. He knew that he would never finish the story; the outline was just to give himself something to do. He didn’t want to look completely lonely yet at the same time he’d never truly mastered how to look the perfect amount of bored.

 

He was about to ask for another glass of wine when someone said, suddenly “That wine will be on me.”

 

Franz turned his head and came face to face with with a young man around his age. He had dark, curly hair and a smile on his face.

 

“Hello, I’m George Byron, pleased to meet you,” the man said, sitting down, almost in a dramatic fashion. 

 

“H...hello,” Franz said, quite startled that Lord Byron was sitting next to him. In the flesh. He was worried that the encounter would be quite awkward given that Franz had read Byron’s diaries when he’d been alive the first time. Such were the intricacies that arose when people were essentially brought back from the dead all of the time.

 

“What are you doing here on this fine Thursday night,” George said. The man was outgoing and charismatic, the exact opposite of how Franz felt in the moment.

 

“The same as what you are doing,” Franz said, attempting to guess George’s motives. It wasn’t so hard given the fact that he had done some research over who Byron was when Franz was alive. 

 

“Is that so?” George said, smiling. He looked as if he was awaiting a reply.

 

“Yes,” said Kafka, meekly. He smiled back.

 

While this exchange occurred, the bartender brought Franz his glass of wine.They sat there in a small bout of silence for several minutes while Franz carefully sipped his beverage. Finally, George said something.

 

“What’s that on your napkin?” George said, pointing to the napkin that Franz had been writing on earlier. 

 

“Just… an outline for a story,” Franz said, cautiously.

 

“Ah, are you a writer?” George asked in response. 

 

“I suppose so, but everything I wrote was published long ago,” Franz said, softly, while looking at George.

 

“Perhaps I recognize your writing,” George said, flirtatiously.

 

“I don’t know if you would,” Franz replied.

 

“What’s your name then?” George asked, curiously.

 

“Franz. Franz Kafka,” Franz answered. He looked back into his wine glass, trying to remain cool.

 

“ Oh! you're that guy who got discovered in Palo Alto! ” George said. A look of recognition flashed in his eyes.

 

“That would be correct,” Franz said, still a bit distant, a bit lost in his own world.

 

“I write too,” George said, winking and smiling. Franz looked away for a moment before looking back.

 

“So. What  _ do _ you write, then?” Franz said, knowing most of what George had written, at least by name.

 

“Poetry mostly. Though none so as wonderful as the walking poem that is you,” George said while grinning in an extraordinarily coquettish manner. Franz blushed slightly at this advance, but he nevertheless kept his cool.

 

“Ah of course. You wrote Don Juan,” Franz acknowledged.

 

“Why yes,” George grinned. “Never did get around to finishing that one.”

 

“Well I suppose that I’m in the same boat as you,” Franz said.

 

“Is that so?” George said, slightly surprised.

 

“I never finished any of my novels. I asked my friend Max to burn them when I died but he never did,” Franz said. 

 

“Why would you want to burn your works? Art is meant to be seen by the public! To be enjoyed! What’s the point if it’s not?” George said, gesturing wildly. 

 

“Well, my writing was just too… too personal for the public eye. And it certainly wasn’t good enough to be published,” Franz said. He turned slightly away from George.

 

“Let’s go to a bookstore right now, and I’ll prove you wrong. At least on the second count,” George said, charismatically.

 

Franz weighed the pro’s and con’s in his mind before deciding. “I suppose that it won’t hurt.”

 

~~~

 

The pair walked into the bookstore, chilled by the crisp autumn air. Stacks upon stacks of books towered upon the patrons, and the smell of books, old and new, permeated the air like a strong perfume. A bell on the door sounded slightly as they entered.

 

“Where would you be?” George asked, trying to find Franz’s works

 

“Judging by how everything is in alphabetical order, somewhere around here,” Franz said, walking over to a specific bookshelf.

 

George took a book, a copy of The Trial, out of the shelf and began to examine it. He read the first phrase aloud. “Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.” He paused to comment. “I don’t see how that would be considered bad at all. You should see what some other people have written.”

 

“I suppose so. That still does not change my mind,” Franz replied swiftly. He began to walk over to another section of the store, in search of another book/

 

“Where are you going?” George asked, curiously.

 

“I want to see what you wrote,” Franz said, determined.

 

“Is that so?” George replied.

 

Franz flipped open a thin volume of poetry to a random page, and he began to read. “Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte by Lord Byron. ’TIS done—but yesterday a King!,” he began, dramatically.

 

“I believe that that’s… quite enough,” Byron said, chuckling.

 

“Do you see what I’m saying now?” Franz said.

 

“I suppose so,” George responded. “Sometimes, I concede, works written can be… private.”

 

They continued to walk around the bookstore until Franz came upon a volume in the nonfiction section.  _ Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution _ by Kropotkin.

 

“So. Are you an anarchist, then?” George asked, leaning on the bookshelf. 

 

“I’ve always thought of myself as a socialist, but I suppose that I could classify  _ some _ of my views underneath anarchism,” Franz said, examining the book.

 

“Interesting. I’ve never slept with an anarchist before,” George said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“You have yet to convince me to go home with you,” Franz retorted.

 

“That  _ is _ true,” George conceded.

 

“However, I wouldn’t be  _ opposed _ to the idea,” Franz said. George began to smile widely, pleased that his flirting skills came through for him yet again.

 

Franz and George walked over to a set of plastic tables near the front of the store. They sat down facing each other, making the whole occasion feel more like a date. 

 

“You know, I’ve always thought that defending unions is super important. In my... previous life I did some work defending textile workers,” George said. 

 

“Interesting,” Franz responded. 

 

The two continued to talk about politics and philosophy for several hours, until the bookstore began to close. Just before exiting, they both noticed that it had begun to rain.

 

“Well this is a... complication for sure,” Franz said. He looked at George who gave him a coquettish look.

 

“My apartment is only a block from here,” George said. “And you are welcome to stay the night.” He added the second part in an extremely flirtatious voice.

  
“Lead the way,” Franz replied.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Kafka had a bunch of random hookups before he met Wellington, and I love the idea of Byron coming in and causing lots of drama™ with Wellington and Ada. Idk man ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. It's also like super sparse but idk. Whatever.


End file.
